


Mortal Man

by KirkyPet



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: COVID19, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, People being stupid, marriage of inconvenience, shutdown malaise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28436547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KirkyPet/pseuds/KirkyPet
Summary: A resurrected and recently fake-married Sweeney and Laura (Goddess of Roadkill) are experiencing shutdown with Salim and the Jinn. Things are basically FINE apart from emotional constipation, sexual frustration, god-crime and Laura's new divine powers being confused with COVID19 symptoms.A follow-on from 'Lockdown!' https://archiveofourown.org/works/23508217/chapters/56373763
Relationships: Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney, The Jinn | Ifrit/Salim (American Gods)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. Salim: After the siege, post-party blues

**Author's Note:**

> This started life as a 'Laura, Sweeney and Salim are detectives of god-crime' story, and then became about shutdown malaise. Can't think why.

Salim was grateful that, by the time they began to run low on supplies, the American Army had left the lawn.

When the siege began, he had politely but firmly argued in favour of rationing, since no-one could tell how long it would be before they could get supplies without running the risk of being apprehended by the armed forces.

Mr Czernobog’s outburst had been particularly worrisome. Salim had fully expected that the soldiers would brand them all as violent criminals and storm the house. Happily, however, they all decamped some hours later. Perhaps there were other angry men with hammers for them to deal with elsewhere.

This was fortunate, since these gods did not appear familiar with the idea of rationing. Salim had hoped that they would be more amenable to persuasion once Mr Wednesday departed, but Mr Nancy and Sweeney’s party had been going on for some days now. Furthermore, it was evident that cooking agreed with Mr Czernobog. His ruffled feelings were much soothed by making enough meat dumplings and cabbage rolls to feed the American Army if they chose to return.

Laura ate most of them. Salim was happy to see that she seemed to be feeling much better, now she was no longer dead.

*

Once the food and liquor ran out, Mr Nancy and Mr Czernobog departed and the four of them remained to plan their next move.

Laura had been very restless for some time now, so she donned her face covering and very kindly offered to go to the store with a lengthy list. Salim attempted to give her his small supply of cash, which she declined. He wasn’t entirely surprised by this but thought best not to dwell on it. He hoped she would at least not get arrested.

*

Not long after, Sweeney came back in from cutting more wood. Salim had begun to keep an eye on the nice old furniture in this house in case his tall friend ran out of tree trunks to take out his boredom on. He’d been very fidgety as well recently. Salim guessed that he and Laura had both been on the road so long that it was uncomfortable for them to stay still.

Sweeney looked around and frowned. “Where’s herself?” he asked Salim.

“Gone to the store. She was very keen to go. I think she’s getting bored,” Salim explained, hurriedly adding “Thank you for the wood. The Jinn will be here soon to light the fire, I expect.”

Sweeney merely made a kind of _hmph_ noise and dropped the wood into a basket by the fireplace.

As he watched Sweeney fold himself up in a chair and bite his nails with an absent frown, Salim began to worry what would happen if she was very late or –

No, she _would_ come back.


	2. Laura: Divinity affects different people in different ways. Most new gods will develop mild to moderate symptoms and recover without hospitalization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. It’s probably too soon

Oh god, it was so fucking good to drive again. Laura turned on the radio and turned it off again. Fucking news. Same old shit on a loop. She wound down the windows instead and felt the wind in her hair as she floored the gas pedal.

The roads were half empty.

She had it good, she knew. They’d been lucky. Once Wednesday had cleared out, presumably to lick his wounds ‘backstage’ or wherever the fuck, the house had become somewhere the two of them could stick around. Then, once his hangers-on had drunk the place dry – typical gods – they’d followed suit.

Now it was just her and the two people she tolerated most in the world. Salim and Sweeney. And that sarcastic asshole of a Jinn, but he kept Salim happy so that was okay.

But – fuck – she had been so on edge the last week or so. Couldn’t put her finger on _why_ though, and it’d been driving her crazy. She’d put it down to being worried about Shadow or fretting about what shit Wednesday was getting up to, but she knew deep down that wasn’t it.

Laura fidgeted uncomfortably. She _was_ worried about Shadow, out there hopefully-gods-didn’t-know-where but she had a feeling that he was okay, wherever he was. She’d always distrusted _intuition_ but didn’t feel like arguing with it right now. All it was telling her was that Wednesday _wasn’t_ fucking with him right now. That he was okay. Happy, even. She didn’t know why, or how, just that there was nothing _wrong_.

No, it wasn’t that. She had other things on her mind. Now she was out, driving, moving, she could see things more clearly.

Wednesday was defeated, not in the dramatic way she’d fondly imagined – not pulled limb from limb and his head on a stick on the lawn – but, she had to admit, in a more fitting manner. An embarrassing, cringeworthy damp squib of a defeat. Like the universe had put a whoopee cushion under his wrinkled ass and he’d sat right down on it. His glorious war, thwarted by a pandemic? Hah, so much for All-Seeing. And Shadow was out of his clutches, as a bonus.

She was alive again, and _Sweeney_ was alive again, and he’d taken Wednesday’s prize war-stick – some kind of Freudian shit there for sure – and things were – fine.

But the honeymoon was over. She’d deliberately tried to confuse herself, to lose count of the days. But they’d been shut up in that old house for a couple of weeks now for sure and so – it was definitely over.

Those were the terms. She could still hear the Baron’s voice, warm and amused:

_‘Long as you two stick together for thirty days, you’re both alive. Can you do that?’_

It was a marriage of convenience, nothing more. Shit, she hadn’t even been alive to agree to it. And now they didn’t _need_ to stick together anymore. They’d shared a room – usually a bed – while they were still counting the days, and for a while after that, until they’d agreed to it was best to sleep separately. There had to be like ten bedrooms in that place, and it was too risky besides.

She didn’t want to embarrass herself again.

Laura’s face burned anew at the memory, just like it had done when she woke up that morning. She _hated_ when that happened. One of those really vivid dreams that you’re so sure is real and you walk around feeling like everything’s shifted sideways afterwards? Fuck those fuckers. She couldn’t sleep next to Sweeney anymore after that. Oh god and she must’ve talked in her sleep or done something to give herself away because he was only too happy to find another room. Christ, he could barely meet her eye.

_What the fuuuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

She sighed. Well, in some other reality it’d really happened. Some version of herself was having a good time, at least. That bitch.

*

Laura had the drive to weigh the peculiar pros and cons of her shutdown existence, before having to throw herself into the melee at the store. Shopping carts being used as weapons were nothing new, but the masked combatants and the air of fury and desperation in the pasta aisle added a tang of blood and rage to the atmosphere. _He_ should do the food shopping next time. Laura imagined he would appreciate it.

Imagining Sweeney smeared in blue paint and the blood of his enemies, she smirked behind her bandana and smashed her cart into the shins of some soccer mom who'd just tried to cut in line.

*

Whew, it was good to get out, even to stock up on whiskey and toilet paper. Laura felt she’d gained a new sense of perspective. She’d decided not to waste another thought about the fact that she _wasn’t_ worried about Shadow, or even what Wednesday was up to. Perhaps there was something to intuition after all. And she would try not to fret about the prospect of Sweeney suddenly upping and leaving – it wasn’t like anyone knew what the next day would bring at the minute – and they were both _alive_ and no bad shit was happening, not to _them_ anyway -

Thinking thus positively, she drew up to the house, turned off the engine and stepped out of the car –

And the world span for a dizzying moment. Reaching out a hand she leaned on the car door and fought down nausea. She breathed in slowly through her nose, which was a mistake. _What was burning - ?_ She turned and stared wildly at the house, expecting to see flames. No, just Salim gazing curiously at her from the window. She blinked and her senses focused again.

 _Okay, that was weird – delayed post-traumatic stress disorder from shutdown grocery shopping?_ Laura grabbed two of the brown paper bags under her arm and elbowed open the front door. Took one breath and -

“Jesus Christ what the fuck are you _burning_ in here?” she choked. _How were they all in here and not smelling that?_

She put the bags down on the kitchen table before she dropped them and turned to the Salim who stood next to the Jinn, staring at her wide-eyed with alarm.

“Laura! Are you alright? What is the matter?” He gestured shakily to his nose.

She wiped at her nose and stared the smear of red on her fingers.

_What the fuck - ?_

*

“Wh – why’re you carrying me? Put me down – I’m _fine –_ “

“The fuck you are,” Sweeney muttered angrily, as they passed down one of the upstairs corridors. “Fuckin’ passin’ out like that – fuckin’ _nosebleed_ – ?“

He kicked the door open and she found herself laying on a bed and not finding it particularly objectionable. Her sinuses were _burning_ , ow, and her _head_ -

“Now what the fuck is wrong with you - ?”

But his voice sounded too far away and she couldn't find the energy to argue.

*

And she dreamt – 

*

She woke to find Sweeney staring at her, right up in her face as he clearly had a habit of doing when she was laid out for dead. She didn’t flick him across the room this time, partly because she was no longer able to do that kind of thing but mainly because he looked like he was shitting himself.

“And there she is,” he sagged slightly, looking relieved.

“Christ, how long was I out?” she asked with a luxurious stretch. It felt like _days_.

“’Bout fifteen minutes. What the fuck happened there anyway? You scared the - ”

“Fifteen _minutes_?” she interrupted, sitting upright. “What the shit - ” she spluttered, floundering for words and failing.

“You sure you should be getting up?”

A moment to assess her state of – everything – was sufficient to confirm that she did actually feel perfectly normal. The headache had gone and her sinuses no longer felt like she’d been huffing solvents. She sniffed the air cautiously. No burning smell.

And she was _starving_. She looked up at Sweeney who still hovered uncertainly by the bed.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked. “I bought hotdogs.”

He shook his head bemusedly and went to the door, muttering ‘hotdogs’. His footsteps rang down the corridor but stopped short. A doorknob rattled.

“Hey! This door’s stuck! Let us out! She’s fine now!”

“No can do, my friend,” the Jinn’s voice could be heard from further away. “You’re in quarantine. Fourteen days. Sorry, but I can’t risk it."

“Aww _c’mon_! It’s hardly the fuckin’ corona!”

“Sweeney, you know I can’t risk it,” the Jinn’s voice came lower now. “She has symptoms – of _something_ – and I have to protect Salim. You understand.”

“Ach bollocks,” Sweeney muttered, subsiding. “Alright – but we want hot dogs! And beer! Yeah? Ten minutes or I’ll be breakin’ this door down.”

Laura looked up at him a little sheepishly as he came back into the room. “Seriously?”

“Unbelievable. Overprotective fuckin’ jobsworth - ” he muttered, then kicked the bed leg and flopped down on the mattress with an irritated sigh. “Guess it’s just you and me for the next fortnight. Last time I’ll be sendin’ you to the shops.”

“But he’s bringing hotdogs, right?”


	3. Sweeney: Is this quarantine or a second honeymoon?

She'd been sitting by the window when he quietly opened the door that night, after the party was long over. It was late enough, or early enough, for even Nancy to be in his bed - or in his web, whatever.

“Isn’t this past your bedtime?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he retorted by way of answer.

“Come to congratulate you, among other things.”

_Huh. What for? Fucking up?_

“For getting what you wanted," she went on, as if he'd asked the question out loud. "You did, didn’t you? A battle? Even better, a death and a victory?”

Sweeney remembered the joy of the fight, the long-despaired-of clarity, the taking of Gungnir from _him_ , and of going where he couldn’t be followed, where he could rest, finally.

“War gave you death, and love gave you life," she smiled, looking altogether too pleased with herself.

“Hah, you gonna take credit for that now, are ya?” he snorted, holding a few bottles up to the moonlight to see if they were empty. They were, he noted sourly.

She stared at him a moment and smiled more to herself than to him.

“I forgot. The Loa don’t disclose their methods, not even to family. Oh Sweeney, Sweeney, for one so old you are so very young, so - _human_.” She beamed at him, and for a moment he really did feel like a fucking infant.

“How is your wife tonight? Does life agree with her this time around?”

By this point he knew full well he wasn't going to get out of this conversation. “She’s sleeping. Busy day.”

“And you are not. Something weighs heavy on your mind - ?”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Look, she’s not - we’re not really together. Not like that. It’s complicated.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You have made it complicated.”

“Fuck - I didn’t _mean_ to. I was _asleep_ and I’m just not used to - it’s just she’s alive now, properly alive, and _warm_ \- like a hot water bottle, but - “ his eyes unfocused and his fingers twitched, “just - really smooth and with these tiny little - “ 

He may or may not have made a kind of _cupping_ gesture with his hands at this point, because a soft chuckle brought him back from his reverie.

“Yes, I can imagine. Didn’t she like it?”

“She sounded pretty fuckin’ annoyed.”

“Was that before or _after_ you stopped?”

He looked at her sharply, and tried to remember the precise sequence of events. He couldn’t. He’d panicked and fled, like a fucking coward. Was she implying that he could still be with _her,_ right now - ? No, don’t even - she was just fucking with his head.

He dumped himself down on the couch like he had a grudge against it.

“Well, when you see her in the morning,” she whispered in his ear as she passed, “ask her from me if she had sweet dreams.”

He pulled his jacket over his head in an attempt to block out the whole world. “You’re a great fuckin’ help.”

*

And, sure enough, while their next meeting wasn’t in sight of their New Orleans morning-after in terms of bitter recriminations, it was still pretty fuckin’ awkward. She’d clamped up tighter than a duck’s arse the second he asked if she’d slept alright, and he’d backed the fuck off and that was that. 

That was weeks ago now. He missed all that sharing-a-room stuff, the idea that it was just normal and the way things were. He missed _her_. Who knew.

Ah well, they call it the honeymoon period for a reason. 

And at least she hadn’t gone off in a huff. Sweeney had had some pretty shitty episodes in his life but few in recent memory had left him as wrecked as the Coq Noir debacle. But things were a whole lot better now than they were then. They'd jumped over a fair number of hurdles together since then. He’d made her amends the only way he knew how, got his luck back and Wednesday had been royally fucked into the bargain.

She and he would forever be bound by all the gold in the hoard, but they both knew there was no longer any reason for her to stay. And when the inevitable did happen, and she decided to go off and look for her man, he wanted them to part ways like friends. 

That was last week and yesterday and this morning. He’d been fuming and fretting over the idea of her getting in the car and not coming back but now she was _sick_ and that was somehow a hundred fuckin' times worse, because it was so _wrong_.

He’d seen her in literal pieces in the ground, incandescent with rage. He’d seen her blank-eyed, an empty vessel half-smeared across the tarmac, but he knew how to fix it.

Now she was passed out and delirious and Sweeney hadn’t the faintest idea what to do.

*

But it was over before the shadows had time to lengthen in her room. He'd barely had time to wonder how obvious his relief had been before she was bouncing around demanding fuckin' hot dogs as if she hadn't just scared them all shitless. And that arse of a Jinn _clearly_ still thought he was wearing his Wednesday's stooge security uniform because he'd decreed they'd have to spend the next two weeks locked up together.

Well, careful what you wish for - because here they were dropped right into a second half-honeymoon, and Sweeney did not know how to feel about that.


	4. Sweeney: Tales by firelight, a sweet conclusion

To Sweeney’s satisfaction, the Jinn must’ve taken him at his word about the whole kicking down the door thing, being as he promptly brought them hotdogs, enough booze to float the Titanic, _and_ mustard. 

And the way she tackled the first hotdog pretty much settled any worries he had about her health. If it hadn’t been that she’d been eating enough to burst an elastic tapeworm ever since she’d been brought back to life, he’d have worried about whether she had a passenger, but she clearly just still wasn’t done making up for being dead.

But still, what the fuck did he know about doctoring these days anyway?

“You sure you’re not sick?” he asked, for the fifth time.

“I’m _fine_. Christ, you weren’t even like this when I was spitting up maggots. What’re you fretting for anyway?”

“I didn’t drag your arse through the hoard _twice_ for you to end up - ”

“Wait, can I stop you there? At least you _had_ the hoard. I had to _carry_ you. Along the road. _Several_ roads. I mean, have you _seen_ yourself?” she rolled her eyes at him. “Fucking baby - ”

Sweeney took a slug of beer and stared into the spitting and cracking fire. That was a good point. What _had_ she done to bring him back to the land of the living? He never did ask. He knew it was to do with the potion the Baron gave her, but that was all.

He looked over at her left arm, the one that had been so ripped up and ragged. He frowned, remembering what the queen had said about his resurrection –

“Tell me about the hoard.”

\- and his eyes back flicked up to her face, surprised at the abrupt demand.

“No – hey, I know, we should tell ghost stories!”

She waved a hand round at the dark wood panelling and the ridiculous carved four post bed.

”I mean, just look at this place!”

She had a point, but truly the attention span on this woman was short to non-existent.

He looked back to her face, her eyes shining in the firelight, her cheeks pink from the heat of the burning wood, probably the same that he’d taken out his irritation on that very morning. Just the two of them, sitting by the fire, telling stories. Not such a bad end to the day after all.

And, as she squeezed mustard onto a second hotdog, a very particular one came to mind.

“Pfft ghosts – you can forget them. I’ll tell you of something far worse than ghosts.”

She raised an eyebrow challengingly, and he carried on, it being fresh in his mind and all. Plus, she had the look of Essie about her, in the firelight. There was only one story to tell at that moment. He couldn’t quite remember if he’d told it to Essie or if he’d heard Essie telling the little kids in her care, but it didn’t much matter. He could remember the guts of it.

“If you think _I’m_ a pain in the arse, you should meet the alt-pluachra.”

“The what now?”

“She’s not as good lookin’ as me, but that doesn’t matter,” Sweeney drew up the image in his mind’s eye, from way way back, and licked his lips with a grin. “No, she’s not much of a looker, but that’s not her way. She doesn’t get you like the Leanan Sidhe or the Kelpie. No, she gets you in your sleep.”

Laura gave him a wry smile. “Is that right?”

“It is indeed. If you were to take a little nap on a particular patch of green – the alt-pluachra would crawl down your throat and take up residence in your belly. And no matter how much you ate from that day on, you’d always be hungry, and you’d waste right away regardless of how much you ate.”

Laura licked mustard off her fingers a little too deliberately and, if Sweeney were a lesser man, he would’ve lost the thread of his story. But he was in his element, by a wood fire of his own cutting, spinning yarns with the woman – well, anyway –

“Not that you’d probably notice - ” he muttered, and was happy to get a ‘Fuck you’ in response.

“Well, so tell me,” she asked, “how I would get rid of this alpine fuckwad?”

“There was a man in Connaught, who lost his fortune to half the doctors in Ireland trying to do that very thing, ‘til a beggar took him to the Prince of Coolavin, on the banks of Lough Gara – “

“A specialist, right – figures – and what did this prince do?” she interrupted.

“Fed him full to bursting with salt beef,” replied Sweeney.

“Okay - ”

“ – and when he could eat no more and he could feel the alt-pluachra dancing in his belly in its distress – too much salt, y’know, she was gettin’ thirsty – he got him to lay face down over the stream, wi’ his mouth open. And wait.”

“Ew,” Laura grimaced, clearly one step ahead of him.

“It took a solid hour to get those little fuckers out of him – because you know she’d had a few babies during her time in his gut. The little ones danced out of his mouth first, all twelve of them one after another, but the mother was too wise to shift and when she finally peeked out his gullet and he tried to grab her, she was having none of it.”

Laura put down her last bit of hot dog, which Sweeney took as a compliment to his storytelling, or at least the story.

“ – but she was missing her weans, and besides by this time she was as dry as the Jinn’s jockstrap, and she finally dragged herself out his throat and _splash_!”

“That’s fucked. What did she look like?”

“Kinda like a big newt.”

“Oh. Well that makes more sense. Coulda been worse. She could’ve bust her way out of his ribcage like the xenomorph. I’d say he got off pretty lightly, all things considered.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know, the alien from Alien?” She mimed a hand over her mouth, and then exploding out of her chest. The penny dropped.

“Is this the ‘get away from her you bitch alien’? The stabby hand alien?” He didn’t watch things on screens but he couldn’t avoid overhearing conversations between geeks in pubs and he had impressive powers of recall on trivial matters, even if he couldn’t remember the whole of the Seventies or Eighties.

And that seemed to pass muster, thank fuck. Sweeney didn’t want to have to admit that that he hadn’t seen all the films ever made, especially because he didn’t want to spend the next two weeks staring at a fucking glowing box thing.

“Okay, your turn,” he took a swig of beer. “Put me off my beer, go on. Bet you can’t.”

*

Sweeney sneezed as beer went up his nose.

“You mean she kept the stuff in her quim?” he snorted.

“Yep. She was pretty fucking dedicated, I’ll give her that.”

“All so she could pretend to be talking to dead folk? Christ.”

“I guess she must’ve made a pile of money out of it. It was a big deal, back in those days, spiritualism, right? I guess you _were_ around, back in the nineteenth century?”

“Well, yeah, more or less. But I don’t hold with talkin’ to the dead. Load of old shite.”

“Present company excepted of course.”

“Pfff, you didn’t give me much choice. But ghosts and that – nah – it only encourages them. Nine times outta ten if you ignore them they’ll fuck off and leave you alone. Here, how’d you know all about this stuff anyway?”

“My friend Audrey - ” she began, “ – well, you know what I mean – you probably remember Audrey - ?” she looked drily at him, and he shrugged with one shoulder. Of course he fuckin’ remembered – the grieving widow who tried to ride Shadow on Laura’s grave? Hard to forget. “Well, she was big into Ouija boards and all that kinda thing for a while. Took classes and everything. She was always so _interested_ in things - ”

Laura gave a little bemused chuckle like she was humouring a child, but Sweeney thought he saw a bit of envy there. Presumably this Audrey never tried to off herself with bug spray, not even once –

“She told me all about it. At great length,” she rolled her eyes. “ _I_ don’t know any ghost stories. It’s all bullshit. Ghostly emanations and auras and all that crap, ”

“It is that,” Sweeney poured a glass of whiskey and took a swig. “There’s more interesting things out there to be seen than ghosts. ‘Specially in this fucked up massive hole of a place - stuff that’d make the Morrígan think twice - ”

“Oh my god, have you met Bigfoot?” Laura nearly dropped her glass. “Don’t play with me.”

“Hmm, no.”

“Mothman?”

“No! Fucks’ sake, willya let me get a word in? No, none of those media whores. Have you ever heard of Rawhead and Bloodybones?”

“Sounds like a shit metal band."

“Came over from England ‘round the same time as me. Settled in the South. They got a small but loyal following as a double act these days, and they’ve just about left off eatin’ kids, I’m happy to say. Not folks you’d want to keep in touch with though.”

She shook her head, muttered “I’d love to get a look at your address book sometime - ”

“An’ there’s the Dearg Dur – she was the original Irish vampire. Her dad forced her to marry some rich arsehole who was such a bastard she died of it, and then dragged herself outta her grave and drank her dad and her arsehole husband’s blood out of sheer annoyance, and then seduced men for the hell of it afterwards. Sounds like someone I know. Tell me, did you never feel inclined to try that sort of thing?”

“Hey, I once smacked my face off a school desk and bit straight through my lip when I was a kid,” she made a face, “and I did not care for it. I don’t mind getting covered in the stuff if the situation demands it, but the taste of it makes me want to hurl. So no, I don’t really fancy that, thanks for the suggestion.”

“Even if it gave you life after death?”

“I’d rather steal a coin,” she smiled smugly. “Wait, was the vampire hot? Did you fuck that vampire? You did, didn’t you? Oh my god you’re so predictable - ”

“Not lately,” he winked, enjoying her look of exasperation. Then something else caught his eye, something that made him think he’d maybe had enough. 

Why was the wall moving? He sat forward with a frown and pointed.

“What – what’s _that_? Look at it! There's _stuff_ runnin’ down the wall - ”

“Hah, good luck, you can’t get me that easy.”

“No, but - ” he got up and moved towards the far wall. The fire was dying and the first light of dawn was greying the sky. In short, it was a bastard to be able to see what the fuck it was.

“Your timing’s all to shit, the ectoplasm conversation was ages ago – whoa - oh god what _is_ that? wait, what the fuck are you – _don’t touch it_ – _ugh Sweeney stop licking the fucking wall!”_

He turned to look at her, eyes probably popping out of his head from the unexpected sugar rush as well as the surprise. This was a kind of ghostly emanation he’d take and welcome.

“IT’S HONEY!” he grinned and went back to sucking his fingers. Ohboy.

She pinched her nose and muttered, “Oh my god, ghost bees - could this day _get_ any weirder?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was googling ectoplasm and ended up with the story of an Irish (coincidence, or maybe we’re all just weird enough) medium who shoved muslin into unlikely orifices to fake the effect  
> https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kathleen_Goligher
> 
> I also need to cite ‘One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night‘ by Christopher Brookmyre for the “eat enough...to burst an elastic tapeworm” line. Its one of the funniest books I’ve ever read btw


	5. Laura: Singing to the bees, Paradise Lost

Yes, that was actual _honey_ oozing down the wall. And Sweeney was, she now knew, completely fucking feral for honey.

“There’s gotta be a nest up there somewhere. C’mon!” He darted out the door. 

“C’mon _where?”_ she protested.

“The attic! Or the roof, I dunno. Just up!” an excited voice echoed from the hall.

“Right,” she sighed, but couldn’t help but grin despite herself. Sweeney had just unexpectedly transformed into Winnie the Pooh in her mind’s eye and she didn’t want to miss seeing him get his oversized self embarrassingly stuck somewhere in search of honey.

From absolutely nowhere, a whole other mental image presented itself, which had zero to do with a fat cartoon teddy bear and a whole lot to do with strategic drizzling - and y’know, licking. She shook herself. Bees? That didn’t sound like a great idea.

She followed him into the corridor just in time to see him haul himself up through a hatch to what was presumably an attic.

“Y’know what’d be really good?” she wandered up to the hatch, “Not getting stung to death!”

She got no reply to this but a laugh and a hand waving down from the hole in the ceiling. She grabbed hold with both hands and braced and scrambled through the hatch with surprisingly little difficulty, though it was very much Sweeney who did most of the muscle work. Laura took a second to lament her former undead strength - and also probable imperviousness to bee stings - before setting her mind to the task at hand. Which was staying well out of the way while Sweeney – now all intent seriousness – hummed to himself, or was it to the bees?

“What’re you gonna do?” she whispered. “Hang on, you’re not – I thought you had to smoke them out - ?

He shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Laura would not normally submit to being shushed, but they _were_ dealing with bees. Let’s not upset the bees here. Fine, fine, she'd zip it.

His humming became louder, and less like humming – she wasn’t sure whether it was him or _them_ after a few moments – and he would murmur a few things in his own language, humming all the while, which shouldn’t really be possible surely -

“Seanchairde, an gcuirfidh tú fáilte romham - ?"

She didn’t know what he was saying to them but, when he spoke like that, Laura had to admit that _she_ would probably give him whatever he wanted and welcome. And it must’ve worked because he smiled and reached into a hole in the hive or nest or whatever, a hole that she was sure wasn’t there a blink ago. Laura gave a small cry and stepped back as a cloud of bees flew out, but they didn’t seem particularly pissed, so she hoped Sweeney would just keep humming ‘til they could nope out of there before they changed their tiny minds.

*

“ _Ah fuck, ya little bollocks - ”_ , Sweeney hissed, stepping out into the daylight with his prize - and one stung hand.

“Guess they didn’t all like your singing, huh?” Laura chuckled, stepping forward to give zero assistance at all. She couldn’t remember if bee stings needed vinegar or if you were supposed to piss on them. But Sweeney had seemingly forgotten the pain and was making short work of the chunk of honeycomb in his swelling hand.

Trying to block out the sounds of loud pleasure emanating from the leprechaun, Laura instead focused her attention on the stricken bee lying at her feet.

“Is it dead?”

“I’ve got half its innards stickin’ in my finger here,” Sweeney grumbled, between sounds of chewing.

Laura crouched down and surveyed it. One bee out of thousands had ignored his wheedling and stung the shit out of him. She kind of admired it for its absolute pig-headed stubbornness. But – it was very dead. She wondered if its buddies were putting together a shitty obituary for it right now.

She picked it up and cradled its disembowelled body in her hand. “Was it worth it?” she asked.

_Seriously, little guy, if you knew what was coming, would you do it differently?_

“Soooo fuckin’ worth it,” Sweeney moaned, looking like he was having some kind of honey-orgasm as he noisily and industriously sucked at his fingers.

Laura rolled her eyes and tried to ignore the effect his awful but unintentionally seductive table manners had on her. She closed her eyes and let out a slow breath. When she opened them again, Sweeney was back from Planet Honey, staring down at her hand like he'd never seen a hand before and she was on the point of asking him _what?_

But _what was that noise?_ A car. Getting closer. She straightened up and walked the edge of the low wall that surrounded the roof. It wasn't their car - it was here, parked out front. Huh, probably just passing traffic, farm vehicles, whatever.

She let out a long breath and scanned the landscape around, silently revelling in her restored clearness of vision. You don’t appreciate a thing ‘til you lose it, after all. She’d spent weeks with the cloudy cataracts of undeath coming and going across her vision. Now she could focus on the details of the very trees and buildings on the very horizon, it seemed. Even in the growing light and the dawn mist. Which was why she concluded it was her imagination supplying the details. But it really was something, being up here. Up on the roof of this old house, with Sweeney, nobody around but Salim and his Jinn downstairs.

Making coffee. Nice. Coffee would be _great_.

With a contented sigh, she turned back to Sweeney. He’d finished cleaning himself up and looked lost in thought, still humming away. Probably still on a honey-high.

Okay, she could no longer put that car-noise down to tinnitus or a distant lawnmower. It was definitely coming closer. And indeed there was a _Bentley_ winding its way along the drive through the trees.

Sweeney joined her and stared. “Who the fuck’s that?"

“I swear, if it’s Wednesday, I’ll - ” she growled, but only out of habit. It wasn’t Wednesday, she knew that, even before the car pulled up.

A man in a ridiculous jacket got out. He stared at their car. He stared at the front of the house. He got out his phone and thumbed a number. A very short number.

“Police? Yes. I’m – my house has been _invaded by terrorists_. Yes – no – I’m not in the house – but I can see them. They’re in my kitchen - _yes they're dangerous -_ “

_What the fuck -_

Laura gave Sweeney an outraged look. “Can you believe that guy? That is _so_ out of order.”

“You’re asking _me?_ ” he gave her the side-eye and folded his arms. “Time was, it’d be _me_ getting that kinda reaction. Prob’ly before your time – “

Laura suddenly remembered the awful action movies her Dad used to watch when she was little, the ones where Brad Pitt and Tommy Lee Jones seemed to be vying for Most Cringe Accent. Well, it wasn’t like that now. It was _Salim_ who would be the target when the SWAT team arrived. This was unacceptable. He and the Jinn needed a chance to get out, _now_.

“We have to sort this out,” she said, flatly. She moved along the strip of flat roof, further from the front door.

“Distraction,” she hissed to Sweeney. “Decoy. Whatever. You clear us a way out and I’ll keep Fauntleroy here occupied.”

“Excuse me!” she yelled down. “Can I _help_ you?”

“Fuck’s sake - ” swore Sweeney, leaning over the edge with a sigh.

“ – “ the man gaped upwards and squinted. Seeing Laura and Sweeney peering oh-so-casually down at him, he seemed equally dumbfounded and outraged.

“How dare you break into my house - !” the man spluttered, marching closer and waving an admonitory finger. “You won’t get away with this!”

Noting his change in demeanour from panicked to pompous on the appearance of a young white woman on the scene, Laura gleefully drew herself up and summoned up all righteous indignation she possessed. “How dare us? How dare _you_? One-percent parasite! This house could hold fifty people and you come swanning with your big car and your Swiss bank account and your - ”

“Rent-roll,” Sweeney suggested, before ducking back into the attic.

“Rent roll!” Laura yelled triumphantly, because out of the corner of her eye she could see Salim and the Jinn tiptoeing to the car and she wasn’t going to waste good yelling time asking _what the fucking fuck is a rent-roll_?

She could hear the distant sounds from a floor and a half below her feet, and wished she still had her zombie destruction skills. Because she was running out of ideas and was beginning to feel silly. You could only spend so long chanting "Pro-test! Pro-test! Pro-test!" while waiting for the sounds of sirens.

Thud _THUD long pause running feet CRASH_

Laura grinned and made a dash for the attic door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Seanchairde, an gcuirfidh tú fáilte romham?" "Old friends, will you give me a welcome?" (I'm trusting to Google Translate here, so apologies if this is awful awful Irish)


	6. Salim: Congratulations on your promotion!

Time seemed to slow down for Salim as Laura and Sweeney burst from the side door and tore across the open ground towards the waiting car. In the corner of his vision he could see the owner of the house reach into his car – for a gun!

Salim braced himself for shots as the man pointed it at the intruders. But nothing happened, and the man merely swore and yelled, “The police are on their way! You won’t get away with this!”

The pair were laughing as they dove into the car. At least Laura was. Sweeney was mainly cursing, although he looked like he’d quite enjoyed the excitement. The Jinn revved and gravel flew before Sweeney had time to slam the rear door behind him.

Salim gave silent thanks that they were unshot and unarrested.

“You were lucky there, my friends!" Salim cried, once he could get breath enough to speak. "The man’s gun jammed!”

“Yeah, well – _that_ is why we do not lock people into rooms,“ Sweeney grumbled, rubbing at his sore shoulder and swearing under his breath like only a leprechaun can.

“That’s what happens when people threaten to kick doors in. Other people might just take them at their word,” the Jinn countered drily. He’d been right, Sweeney _could_ get through locked doors, even old oak ones, by a well-placed boot. Or a shoulder, in this case.

“Can we stop chatting and start _driving?_ Quite fast, for preference. He wasn’t kidding, I can hear cops already!”

“No? Where?” Salim looked around at the empty road and even emptier farmland. No sign of police. He shared a look with the Jinn.

Laura turned, stared out the back window and seemed surprised at the distinct lack of flashing blue lights. She wiggled her pinkie finger in her ear. “Huh.”

And then she sneezed. Four, five, six. 

“Motherfucker,” cursed the Jinn under his breath, and pulled over.

“Why’re you stopping?” Sweeney protested.

“Out. Everyone out,” the Jinn ordered. “Salim, get out of the car.”

“Nooo, not this again,” Sweeney groaned.

*

The Jinn hid the car so it wouldn’t be seen by any pursuers.

“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this. I’m probably just allergic to something.”

“You were smelling things weirdly! You said it yourself. That’s a symptom!”

“I haven’t _lost_ my sense of smell! It’s the opposite! I’m smelling things you guys don’t. I mean, Christ, I thought I was having a _stroke_ or something - ”

Sweeney muttered something unintelligible that was probably a swearword _._

“ - but it’s more than that. It feels like - “ she waved her hands vaguely “ - I’m just getting my senses back again. I couldn’t smell or touch or taste _anything_ when I was dead. I’m just getting it all back again - “

“With interest,” the leprechaun cut in. “Fifty percent extra smell and hearin' free with every resurrection.”

“Maybe. Maybe I did. That’s not unreasonable, after everything that’s happened! And that’s it! Nothing else is weird. I’m not sick! Just maybe a bit - overwhelmed by it all.”

She paused and took a deep breath, like someone who was preparing to explain a lesson very simply to a slow child.

“Look. I came into the house, had a funny turn and passed out - I had some really weird dreams about the Jinn creeping about like James Bond killing people - " she laughed incredulously, " - and Sweeney _seriously_ beating the shit out of a lot of priests - and then I felt fine! We had hotdogs and found a bees’ nest and - “

“You brought a bee back to life - “ said Sweeney, almost too quietly for Salim to hear. He looked troubled. So did the Jinn, behind his stoical expression and glasses. Salim could read him well by now.

Laura and the Jinn too busy glaring at each other and arguing to heed what he had said, so Salim sidled up to his tall friend. 

“What did you say about a bee?” 

“Yeah, I was singin’ to the bees but there’s always one dumb fucker who just wants to sting, right? She had it layin’ in her hand and was talkin’ to it and then it upped and flew away. Thought it was kinda weird at the time - “

Salim fished the folded paper out of his pocket – the joke marriage certificate - he’d grabbed it as they fled the house, it was an important official document after all, sort of anyway - 

He skimmed down ‘til he found the particular bit of writing. 

_‘Laura, Goddess of Roadkill_ , _Second Chances – ‘_

“Ohhhhhh - “ he breathed. This was big. Of course, it wasn’t _real_ real, but the company Salim kept these days had broadened his imagination somewhat.

“What?” Sweeney demanded. “What is it?”

He looked up the leprechaun in awe and turned to the pair who still stood glaring at each other.

“Laura! Are you really a goddess now?! That is such good news! Congratulations!”


End file.
